he's not a fool
by freakinfarkle
Summary: or at least he doesn't think so, until he meets the devil herself. (octachel)


Octavian Alexander wasn't a fool. He knew he shouldn't be outside when the winds felt like they were going to tip him over and let him fall to the ground. He knew that the autumn air wasn't warm enough to warrant leaving his house without a jacket across his shoulders and a scarf laden around his neck. He knew - better than anyone he knew, including his incredulous mother and arrogant father - there was no reason to run away from things which could easily be solved if you could brush off the anxiety and procure a state of well-being.

Yet here he was. In the chilly air of autumn, when the moon hovered over him like a disapproving teacher and their distant yells of disappointment, he roamed the streets in nothing but a pair of jeans and short-sleeved shirt. The park was barren, devoid of people in the dead of night, and he was all right with that. Almost all the time, he was bombarded with people who wished to speak with him about how arrogant and selfish he was, or how their problems were magnitudes larger than his thoughts of distress and undoing, so to be here, with howling winds whistling in his ears, the leaves on the trees rustling in its stead, he felt safer.

He didn't feel safe at home; there were too many unpredictable things. Like his mother, who never knew how her only child was doing despite his constant proclamations of despair, or his egregious tearing up of his childhood plushies. She would ignore him when he told her his grades were dropping because of his inability to function in the classroom. Her response would always be lackluster, the same thing every time: "You can do better if you try, honey."

Couldn't she see he wasn't getting better with each passing day? Were the bags underneath his eyes not enough to demonstrate his exhaustion? Did she not see the fluff of his toys splayed across his room when she entered, the ones who had given him such entertainment and excitement when he was younger, but now gave him nothing but a yearning for something more?

She knew nothing of her child's state of being.

Besides, there was nothing else he could do to show her anything of worry. Her concern was no longer in him, the child she bore with a man she barely loved in the first place, but in the problems he gave her. Sometimes, he would see the way she grimaced when he entered the kitchen and she was speaking with one of her close friends; how she bared her teeth and those blue eyes, the ones he inherited from her alone, shone with a particular contempt beheld for him only. She would usher him away when she was lying in her velvet chair and reading an erotic romance novel, her cheeks flaring a flush of hot red. She would give him distinct unwelcome when he entered the household and another man Octavian knew wasn't his father had her in his lap, and would turn around and take his leave for his bedroom almost instantaneously, like a god zapping from one end of the world to the next because of an inconvenience.

He could see it from a mile away, from the North to South Pole, with a clarity so defined and taut since the beginning of his life. He was a nuisance to her, something she wished never had happened because of how often it got in the way. She wanted it gone, he was sure of it, and this night, he had gone.

He exited the house after an argument flared from the depths of his emotions. There was scant appearance of them, but tonight, he allowed them to break free from their cages. He unleashed them onto his mother, who stood there as the onslaught continued. When it was over and Octavian no longer could speak his mind, she unraveled her cold anger onto him. Like ice being poured down your back, he wriggled as the frigid feeling splayed down his spine, made him convulse as she came closer, her burning eyes soon only a few inches from his.

At that point, he had left. He could not take it. There was a sense of pride which escaped him at that moment, but he held onto it no longer, letting himself feel vulnerable in the darkness of the night as he ran and ran. He could feel the cold sweat trickling down his face. Once, he thought his mother was chasing after him, that the resounding footsteps behind him were not only his but another's. However, he never turned around until he met the gates of the Olympian Park a few blocks from his house. His head whipped around and found nothing; no one.

Relieved, he decided a kind trek through the park would be a great idea. He needed to get his mind off of everything which transpired not too long ago, and a walk in the park would be a definitely unparalleled prospect - or, at least, one where he wasn't compromised by the slightest of problems. He couldn't remember the last time his mind was devoid of worry and anxiety, which prevailed through almost all situations to relinquish a sense of disparagement. And hopefully, this would fix that: a pleasant stroll through a pleasant place.

So he went on after standing awhile to catch his breath, the feeling of unwelcome dread and despair leaving him as his feet pitter-pattered against the cement sidewalks.

The only problem he met, though, was one in the form of a young girl who managed to knock him to the ground in her hurry to get somewhere.

He didn't have time to register the figure in the darkness before she collided with him, and when he struck the ground and suffered a minor head injury as it smacked hard against the cement, he cried out. It hurt, that was for sure, and he could feel the pulsing pain drift through from the back of his head into the center. The streetlights which pervaded throughout the park seemed to be gone here, for whatever reason, so Octavian had to use the damned moonlight in order to see the person who pushed him down.

There, right above him, was a pale girl with a frizzy mane of red hair. It encapsulated her face as she looked down at him, her thin lips stretched into a straight, unemotional line. She seemed no more thoughtful than Octavian was when he left his house, his heart hammering, his head pounding, a throbbing vein on his forehead, and she simply stared down at him. Her wide emerald eyes only heralded an unbridled rage in the depths of his chest, something he felt whenever his father called over the phone from across the country with nothing but a wish to speak with his mother. It was a dangerous feeling, one which mixed with fear and dread caused him a great deal of trouble, but he held to it like a newlywed couple to each other, keeping it there to his breast as he slowly lifted himself from the cement.

"How dare you?" he said, the grueling words leaving his lips before he recognized their fervor.

He stepped closer to her, and she backed away when he came forward, her placid face now given way to a fresh coat of crimson. "What do you mean, how dare I? You were the one who knocked into me in the first place."

Octavian's head throbbed. Perhaps it was because of the fall he had, or the pure infuriating anger which this girl made him experience, but at this point, he took the problem and shaped it into his own make. "You were running at full speed through a barren park, and you have the gall to tell me I ran into you?" He scoffed, a sound which naturally fell from his mouth whenever he encountered anybody at school.

It was him who backed away from the girl this time. She stepped onward with a stubborn demeanor, and pressed her finger to his chest as she did. His scrawny ribs could take the assault, but he wasn't sure his heart was going to survive this excursion. It was already sending blood and adrenaline to each of his veins, and he could feel its every pump, all of the liquid flowing through him and giving him energy. In the moonlight, he could spot the constellation of freckles which overspread her features. They pervaded each space of her cheeks, like an army collecting altogether in order to ward off a passing threat. "Excuse me, Mr. Scarecrow, but I have a party to get to, and the fastest way to get there is through this place."

Mr. Scarecrow. If he wasn't fueled like the hull of rocket bound for space, he could have avoided the insult and went back into his onslaught of useless arguing. But it rebounded off of his head and knocked him into another world entirely, one which was filled with a film of pure red, a gory landscape laden with blood and flesh and guts. He couldn't see himself, but he was sure his face was bright with embarrassment and choler. "I doubt anybody would invite Raggedy Ann to their party unless they wanted a useless ragdoll flapping about in their living room," snapped Octavian.

And this time, she appeared as though she were about to implode, on the fringe of swinging her fists into his face and leaving him there on the cement beneath his feet. He was ready for it, too; he hadn't felt this alive, this invigorated ever since he and Reyna argued in the Student Council. Their voices reached higher points than the peak of Mt. Everest, and the others laid back and watched the show as it unfolded, their intonations soon growing raspy and distinctly hoarse until Octavian waved a white flag in defeat. He was still sour about the loss and tried his hardest to convince everyone he would have won if she hadn't said anything about the school's dwindling treasury. But he felt a burning sensation within him when she was right in front of him, her voice loud and direct and in his face, something which brought him out of his ruts of apathy and into the land of the living with flailing limbs and lips.

"You," she said slowly, embedding her finger into his chest, "listen here, you insolent little brat. I don't need to be here right now, arguing with you. I have better things to do, and telling you off is not one of them."

A feral smirk lifted his lips. He didn't know it was there until she backed away from him, looking over his shoulder longingly. She probably did have an event to go to, he thought. With her extravagant outfit and the slight makeup she wore, he assumed she was out to impress. And though he felt hotter than the surface of Venus even in the chill of the autumn night, he wished to stay here, belittling her. It made him feel good, made him feel better in the midst of the darkness which surrounded him lately. He sure hated her, despised the way she addressed him so harshly, like he was a Nazi under the control of the ever-so infamous Hitler, but yes, she brought him enjoyment and an ecstatic feeling.

"Then why don't you go and do that, Little Miss Perfect?" he goaded.

Her teeth drew back in an aggressive grimace. She obviously felt as irritated as he was (his head still suffered and pounded, the back of it pulsating pricks of pain into his brain and across his whole cranium), in no mood to extend the situation she brought them into any longer. She stepped away from him with a indignant movement. "Maybe I will, Mr. Scarecrow," she said roughly.

"Do it."

And she did. She gave him a lasting look of anger and contempt, and when she was an appropriate distance away from him, where he could only see the outline of her face and a remnant of her glowing green eyes, she turned around and strode on with quick steps.

He watched her as she went, his blue eyes looking nowhere else until she went around the trunk of a large tree and disappeared from view utterly.

For the rest of the night, he could only smile. He spent the next two hours wandering through the park, thinking if he would ever see her again.

He hoped so.


End file.
